


Three's a Crowd

by ComeAlongPond14



Series: The Riding Crop [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Riding Crops, Sex Toys, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John decides that his turn is really still Sherlock's turn. Mycroft walks in on the sexytimes and isn't kicked out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's a Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> I feel the need to mention that I'm not actually personally a fan of Mycroft and Sherlock being involved in the same sex scene together...I just find the incest-iness of it weird. But this was a request, and I aim to please. :)
> 
> I do want to do the Lestrade scene, if I get votes for it.

It took all of three days for John to stop weighing the pros and cons and accept that at the bottom line, Sherlock was the dominant partner in their relationship. He liked topping, but the fact remained that Sherlock with a riding crop in hand was a force of nature, and John....well, he liked it. With his upcoming “turn,” he decided it was time to indicate this to Sherlock.

This was why, when Sherlock returned from the lab one day, he walked in on John laying on the floor of the living room, wearing his jeans and nothing else, and holding the riding crop in one loose hand over his stomach. He was staring into space, his thoughts whirling, but Sherlock’s presence was electrifying, and he knew the detective would see that he was holding his breath.

Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing down at him. He took two slow steps toward John, sliding his gloves off, and then his coat, silent all the while. For once, John didn’t second-guess himself. He knew Sherlock was merely deducing the situation.

“Every turn is to be my turn, then?”

John allowed a slight smile, knowing it was enough of an answer. Then he lowered the crop to the floor beside him, reached up to unbutton his jeans, and slid them off. He heard Sherlock’s breath catch, but he didn’t pause. His pants followed, and he carefully kicked both off.

There was a whisper of motion, and then Sherlock was pressing a strip of cloth over his eyes, blindfolding him. John raised his head slightly, allowing it to be tied. He was rewarded as Sherlock leaned down, his lips brushing John’s ear as he whispered, “Continue.”

John obliged promptly, fumbling for the lube he’d placed beside himself. Carefully he arched his hips and prepared himself, working his way up to three fingers, gasping slightly as he fucked himself on his own hand, aiming for speed rather than seduction. It still had the intended effect; he could hear Sherlock’s breathing quicken, and it made his fingers pump faster.

When he knew he was stretched enough, John scrambled to grab the crop, and he heard Sherlock gasp--satisfaction washed through him at the possibility that he had surprised his lover. Repressing a smile, he reached down. Raising his hips, it didn’t take much to place the handle of the crop at his own entrance.

With a mangled half-groan, half-gasp, John pushed the crop into himself. The feeling of the rigid leather pressing into him was utterly alien, but he took it all, savoring Sherlock’s blatant groan of lust at the spectacle he must be making. He knew how wanton it must look, nude and blindfolded and shoving the handle of the man’s riding crop up his own arse, but knowing that Sherlock did like it, he pressed forward.

When the crop was deeply imbedded, John allowed himself a breath. It was the most intense thing he’d ever felt, penetrated by an inanimate object while blind and feeling Sherlock’s burning gaze on him. Inhaling quickly, he hardened his nerves and began to move his fist, fucking himself with the crop. As he’d hoped, the result was a strangled groan from somewhere overhead as Sherlock opened his trousers, the slick sound of lube revealing that that he was fucking his own fist at the sight. John’s hips stuttered, and Sherlock growled, “Don’t stop.” The low timbre of his voice was enough, and John groaned helplessly as he ground down on the crop handle. He longed to touch his own throbbing erection, but he knew better. He had not been instructed to.

Still, the impact of the crop striking his prostate repeatedly was beginning to affect him, and his hips arched at the sensation. Anticipating his climax, Sherlock abruptly stepped closer, and John gasped as he felt Sherlock’s foot come down flat on his chest, pinning his body to the floor forcibly. One hand flew to Sherlock’s ankle, but not in protest. His mouth fell open in a wordless question.

Sherlock’s voice was gravelly. “Keep fucking yourself, but do. Not. Come. Do you understand?”

John nodded, resuming the motion of shoving the crop in and out of his arsehole. Between the assault of the crop and the weight of Sherlock’s foot, he couldn’t have disobeyed if he’d wanted to.

In hindsight, John should have heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs, or at least heard the door protest squeakily as it shifted further open to admit the intruder. But he was too far gone. For a few moments, only Sherlock was aware of the third person in the room, standing silently at the doorway, watching John fuck himself on the riding crop while a fully clothed Sherlock pinned him with one foot.

When Sherlock spoke, it stunned John to the core. “Don’t stand and gawk, Mycroft, it’s dull. Close the door and come in. Take a seat, if you’ve a mind to.”

John attempted to buck up, but Sherlock’s foot flexed commandingly. “I did NOT say stop.”

“Sherlock--”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was ice. “Resume, or this stops permanently.”

John froze for a few seconds more, and then shuddered as Mycroft spoke from somewhere in the direction of his own armchair. “Please, John, don’t mind me.”

He wanted to laugh, he really did, but he didn’t have the energy to spare. Slumping back to the floor, he lay still for a moment, debating whether Sherlock would actually call off their games if he refused to fuck in front of Mycroft.

Clearly knowing where his thoughts were drifting, Sherlock slid his foot up so that the lateral side was pressed down on John’s windpipe. Surprise--and, damn the man, lust--surged through John as he felt his breathing become restricted.

Sherlock’s voice was low and vibrant with raw sensuality. “There is no reason for you to stop or to feel ashamed of your current position. It does not matter that he is here. Now fuck yourself on my riding crop, John, and when I see fit, you will get your reward.”

John couldn’t suppress the moan that slipped from him, emptying his lungs. He concentrated on the sensations that were Sherlock; the weight at his throat, his presence overheard, the searing heat of that all-seeing gaze. Without a thought, his fist began to move again, and he made a soft keening sound of need as pleasure sparked through him. His hand increased in speed, and then he was fucking himself properly again, the handle of the crop pushing deeply into his arse with every thrust of his wrist.

Sherlock’s foot slid back to his chest, still pinning him, refreshing the glorious feeling of submitting to his wild flatmate, and John relaxed into his role. He could hear Mycroft breathing, the sound slightly labored with arousal, but he chose not to focus on it. He was Sherlock’s plaything here, and that was all that mattered.

There was motion nearby, and then the telltale sound of a zipper being drawn down. It was not Sherlock’s. The slick sound of lube being poured. The undeniable noise of someone fucking their hand, several feet away.

A noise of confusion spilled from John, and he heard Sherlock chuckle. “You’re quite a delicious sight like this, John. Can you blame him?”

John’s cheeks flooded with heat at the thought that Mycroft was sitting there, feet away from him, wanking to the show of him riding Sherlock’s crop. His hand faltered.

Sherlock must have leaned down, because abruptly he had seized the crop, and was thrusting it brutally into John, who cried out and arched away from the invasion. Sherlock’s voice was a growl. “I did not. Say. Stop.”

“Sherlock, please--!”

The detective stopped, and John’s hips slumped back down, tremors wracking his body. “Will you behave yourself now?”

John nodded feebly. Mycroft’s disembodied voice drifted over him. “Perhaps, Sherlock, he would be more at ease if I was less...voyeuristic...in the situation.”

Sherlock sounded testy. “And how would that help him?”

The elder Holmes sounded amused. “It’s easier to lose oneself to one’s desires if everyone present is affirming those feelings, rather than silently watching.”

John heard the undercurrent of threat in Sherlock’s voice, even if Mycroft did not. “You’re not asking for sake of his comfort level.” When Mycroft did not reply, John felt Sherlock crouch next to him, running one hand gently up his chest and along his face. “You knew I’d see it, Mycroft, so why didn’t you simply tell me that you were lusting after my property?”

John’s mouth fell open in shock, wanting to protest--whether it was Mycroft’s apparent desire for him or Sherlock calling him his property to someone else (Alright, yes, fine, it was true, but that didn’t make it public knowledge!)--but even as his lips parted, Sherlock’s hand flashed up, two fingers sliding into John’s mouth. He groaned in a mixture of surprise, lust, and protest, but it made no difference; Sherlock thrust his fingers lazily in and out of John’s mouth, mimicking a face-fuck. Abandoning his long-shattered dignity, John closed his lips hungrily, suckling on those beautiful violinist fingers as though his life depended on.

Sherlock made a pleased humming sound, then said softly, “Well, Mycroft?”

His brother sighed softly. “As you say, you knew it. There was no need to antagonize you, or make John uneasy, by making an overture of my interest. If you were strict about keeping him to yourself, you would have made me leave. Instead, you timed it to allow me the opportunity to ask, or to retreat. So I am asking.”

John moaned an attempt at a question, but his only response was Sherlock lifting his hand to slap him lightly, reprimanding, on the cheek, and then the detective resumed finger-fucking his mouth. It stunned John, but the surge of heat to his groin proved that he was loving Sherlock’s assertiveness. It was irritating to be so transparent.

Sherlock’s voice had a smile in it. “Then my answer is yes, on the condition that you remember whose home you are in, and that he. Is. Mine. We are not sharing him. I am allowing you access to him. Not only because he will obey me and submit to you, and not because you want a taste. It will be pleasurable for me to objectively see him used. But I am still in command. Do you accept?”

John thought he really should protest, should argue that he did not want to submit to Mycroft, but Sherlock’s clever fingers were not allowing it. He supposed that was the point; he had free use of his own hands, he could have forced Sherlock’s hand away. But he did not.

Mycroft’s voice vibrated with excitement, startling John. “I accept.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, and John gasped audibly at the loss of the fingers. He heard his lover chuckle softly. “Sorry, John. Time to move forward.”

The detective moved back, and John felt Mycroft approach him. He shivered, but he did not try to shift away. He was waiting for something, unsure what exactly it was.

Sherlock’s voice washed over him, reassuring and calming him. “John. You are submitting to him in obedience to me. Do you understand? It is what I want, it’s not about him. If he directs you in a manner I do not want, I will stop you. Knowing that, relax and comply. Alright?”

The instructions slid through John’s body with the same effect of Sherlock’s hands touching him. Contentment softened his muscles, and his fingers closed over the handle of the crop, still buried inside him, ready and waiting. “Yes.”

Unexpectedly he felt Mycroft’s fingers around his, gently working the crop in and out. John whimpered at the sensation, arching to meet it. His hands rose, seeking contact, and he found Mycroft’s shirt front. Twisting his fingers into the expensive fabric, he pulled lightly, and Mycroft chuckled as he obligingly leaned down, pressing his lips to John’s.

The tempo of the crop increased, and John jerked away with a gasp, his head flung back against the floor as the pressure to his prostate pushed him toward the edge. Sherlock’s voice was lava-hot. “Do not let him come, Mycroft. It’s not time.”

“No, it’s not,” his brother agreed, and John yelped in protest as the crop was suddenly yanked from his arse. Hands grasped his hips, rolling him over, and he got his legs under himself so that he rested on elbows and knees, head down.

Unfamiliar fingers threaded into his hair, raising his head. The velvet smooth head of a cock he did not know brushed his lips, and for a split second, John balked. He needed--

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was mesmerizing in its gentle authority. “Let him in.”

No further protest from his mind. Happy again, John opened his mouth to admit Mycroft, feeling the thick flesh glide over his tongue and begin thrusting shallowly, each slide taking him deeper, until John was swallowing him into his throat. Above him Mycroft groaned in pleasure, both hands resting on John’s head now. John took it, feeling fully aware of Sherlock behind him, taking in his submissive pose and his compliance to the face-fucking. A little teasingly, he arched his back and pressed his arse back, presenting his well-worked hole for Sherlock’s view.

There was a beat of silence from the chair, and then suddenly the crop came down on John’s arse with a solid thwack. Surging away from the sting, he unintentionally pushed himself further onto Mycroft’s cock, taking him balls deep. This apparently pleased both Holmes brothers immensely, and John found himself trapped between a thrusting cock and a merciless flogging. He also found himself not caring. He rocked his weight forward and back, taking the blows of the crop and letting his instincts push him forward to suck the offered cock down deep.

Finally Sherlock dropped the crop, and grunted, “Mycroft, hold off.” As John suddenly found his wide-stretched mouth empty, his hips were seized from behind, and he gasped as Sherlock dragged him back toward the chair. The blindfold was yanked off, and he had time to see Mycroft draping his jacket and shirt over the other chair, before he was jerked down onto Sherlock’s lap. A little fumbling and the squirt of the lube bottle, and he was brutally impaled on Sherlock’s cock. A long, low groan of pure heat tore from him, and he ground down, loving the feeling of Sherlock’s hands gripping his hips, pumping him up and down.

And then Mycroft stepped closer, and John reached for him, moaning as Sherlock raised one hand to twist and toy with his nipples. Grabbing Mycroft’s waist, John drew him closer, catching his bobbing erection and taking it into his mouth. He could feel the detective’s hands all over his body, and filling him so deeply, and then there were the politician’s hands in his hair, his cock overflowing John’s mouth, and he felt free and wild like never before.

He sensed both men’s approaching climaxes, and worked harder, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard, as well as clenching his inner muscles around his lover, milking him toward orgasm. Both the Holmes men began groaning at his efforts, and for a moment John could barely breathe or see or even think as he was fucked soundly at both ends, all hands and heat and cocks and grunts of pleasure and then--

Mycroft came first, allowing several shots of his cum to rush down John’s throat, before he drew back, letting some drip down over John’s throat and chest, but he didn’t mind. He was thoroughly distracted by Sherlock suddenly grasping his own aching hard-on, pumping him in time with his thrusts into John’s body, bringing them off together. As John came, shouting out his lover’s name, he felt Sherlock’s cock spasm within him, filling him, and he had never felt so satisfied.

After a long pause, he blinked and realized that Mycroft was kneeling in front of him, gently wiping him clean with a damp towel. Staring at the older Holmes brother, John managed to whisper a hoarse, “Thank you,” to which Mycroft nodded and smiled. Taking John’s hands, he carefully helped him rise off of Sherlock, who was slumped back in his seat, eyes closed and chest rising and falling as he regained his equilibrium. When John was cleaned up, and after he’d helped Mycroft do so, he returned to kneel at Sherlock’s feet, cleaning him up gently.

Sherlock’s fingers slid through his hair in thanks, and John smiled. Looking up at Mycroft, he asked uncertainly, “Will you...join us again sometime?”

Mycroft smiled at his admission of liking what had happened. “If Sherlock allows me.” Sherlock made an acquiescing humming sound, making his lover and his brother laugh. Stepping forward, Mycroft rested one hand tenderly on Sherlock’s shoulder, while he leaned down and kissed John lightly on his lips. John let him, returning the pressure softly.

When Mycroft had fetched his coat and slipped out of the flat, John rested his chin on Sherlock’s thigh, and sighed. “So you planned that, too?”

The consulting detective chuckled. “I would be lying if I said I’m sorry.”

John snorted, knowing Sherlock could hear his smile in his voice. “I didn’t expect you to be. It was...good. Yeah?”

His lover nodded, a knowing glint in his eye. “Very good.” Leaning down, he kissed John fiercely, erasing the taste of Mycroft from his doctor’s mouth. “Maybe I’ll invite him again next time.” Standing, he was already heading to the kitchen when he called back, “Or maybe I’ll ask someone else...what do you think of Lestrade?”

John spluttered and leapt up, lunging for his trousers as he followed the laughing detective, unable to quite keep a grin off his face even as he tried to come up with something he didn’t like about that suggestion.


End file.
